by Brandon Mull
“My father spent time in prison with Galloran.”
“No, really, the truth.”
“My father bought it,” Jason confided quietly.
“Bought it?” Bartley asked, his grip tightening.
“Right. I don’t know all of the details. The merchant claimed it truly came from a prisoner who spent time with Galloran.”
Bartley released his elbow. “Galloran,” he whispered, looking haunted. “Did any knowledge come with the ring?”
“I have no reason to think Galloran survived,” Jason said, since it seemed to be what Bartley needed to hear. “I plan to say my father was the prisoner who received the title and the ring. The real story could weaken my claim.”
“You’re too free with your information,” Bartley said, recovering.
“My parents thought I could count on you,” Jason said. “I decided to roll the dice.”
Bartley harrumphed. “Right, the dice. Off we go.” Bartley began walking, motioning for Jason to follow. “Bones can feel complicated at first. Two shooters. One shoots for the house, one for himself. Players can bet in several ways. Stay close to me; you’ll catch on. You have bronze?”
“Gold and silver, mostly.”
Bartley grinned. “I can make change for you.”
Jason joined the men around the table. Bartley introduced him as Lord of Caberton. The house shooter wore a black vest with gold embroidery. He rolled a pair of ten-sided dice, one black and one white. The other man, a simpering gentleman wearing white gloves, threw a similar pair of dice, except one was blue and the other yellow.
Jason stuck to bets with decent odds. He won a bit, started betting more boldly, then lost a lot, falling more than a hundred drooma below even. After a risky bet paid off amid laughter and applause, he was back up two hundred and fifty.
The men laughed and shouted as money was won and lost. Sometime late in the evening Tedril reappeared. He seemed utterly won over. He gave Jason a key and told him a servant would see him to his room once he was ready. Jason could hardly hear the innkeeper over the commotion. Tedril promised to help acquaint him with the city and schedule an audience with the regent. A man in a fancy coat waved Tedril away, draping an arm about Jason’s shoulders in mindless camaraderie.
Jason’s winnings climbed to nearly three hundred before plummeting. He quit when he was fifty drooma above even, and left with Bartley.
“You fared well tonight,” Bartley blustered. His face was flushed, almost matching his hair. “You won and lost more than some men ever see. As did I. But we both came out ahead of the house, and that is cause for celebration.”
“Thanks for introducing me to the others.”
“I’ll vouch for you at court as well. The last twenty years have been hard on many families. Everyone deserves a second chance. Tell me, who are your parents?”
“They instructed me to confirm nothing to anyone, even you.”
Bartley grunted. “Probably wise. You ever play Knuckles?”
“No.”
Bartley grinned. “The finest card game ever devised! We’ll see whether you can still afford my friendship after tomorrow. Ha! I’m jesting. We’ll set reasonable limits. Good night, Lord Jason.” He shambled off down a hall.
Jason pulled out his key and stopped a servant. “Could you show me to my room?”
“By all means, Lord Caberton.”
At his door Jason tipped the man five drooma, and the servant regarded him in grateful awe. Once again Jason surmised that people in Lyrian must not tip very well.
The spacious room was nicely furnished. A set of doors opened onto a veranda with a wicker table and chairs. Jason crossed to a full-length mirror and examined himself. Days of travel had melted some fat from his frame, leaving his face leaner and more sharply defined. His new attire did look princely, although he imagined his friends from the baseball team would beat him up if they ever saw him dressed this way.
Sitting at his desk, Jason examined the contents of his knapsack. His money bag contained nine gold drooma and twelve silver, along with many new bronze pellets after gambling. More important than money, he had won acceptance at the Upturned Goblet. But how would he find a question to defeat a man such as Copernum?
Closing his eyes, Jason tried to imagine what might baffle the chancellor. Judging from the description Nicholas had given, it would be nearly impossible. Rachel knew lots of riddles, but Jason doubted that would be the best road. He needed trivial details, things a smart man might still miss. But what?
He knew some good trivia from biology class. He knew that the tip of the sternum was called the xiphoid process. He knew that flexing the foot upward was dorsiflexion, and downward was plantar flexion. He knew the cheekbone was called the zygomatic arch.
But who knew if anatomy had been classified the same way here in Lyrian? Who knew if anatomical details had been classified at all? And if they had, a learned man like Chancellor Copernum would probably know them.
He could think of some tough questions. Does a tree make a sound when it falls if nobody is around? How can you prove you exist? What is the meaning of life? The problem was, he not only had to stump Copernum—he had to provide a better answer.
Unsure how to force inspiration, Jason brooded miserably. Despite the late hour his frenzied mind did not feel sleepy.
Four days later Jason sat anxiously in the posh compartment of a sleek black carriage alongside the Viscount Bartley of Wershon, on his way to an audience with the regent. Velvet curtains screened the city from view. He wore an embroidered doublet, breeches that ballooned around his thighs, crimson stockings, and simple black shoes as soft as slippers. In his lap rested an overgrown beret with a crimson plume. He might have suspected the outfit was a joke had Bartley not worn similar attire.
A tailor had come to his room two days ago to measure him for the costume, then delivered the outfit the following morning. Despite the gaudy appearance, his clothes felt surprisingly comfortable.
Over the past few days Jason had lost nearly four hundred drooma gambling, most of it playing Knuckles, much of it to Bartley. He had spent another couple hundred on food and additional clothing.
Jason had used all of his free time to consider riddles and questions. Some of the riddles Jason remembered were silly jokes from his childhood. What’s easy to catch but hard to throw? A cold. Why did the baby cross the road? It was stapled to the chicken. What do you get when you cross a cactus and a porcupine? Sore hands.
He felt most hopeful about some odd bits of trivia he had recalled, but still none of his ideas seemed like a reliable bet. He wished he had an Internet connection to his world!
The ride from the Upturned Goblet to the castle was brief. Before long the carriage clattered through the gates, and a footman helped them down.
“You will enter through the audience gate,” Bartley said. “I will await you inside. See you soon.”
Jason followed a liveried servant into the castle. They passed down a vaulted hallway. Ornate pilasters adorned the walls at regular intervals. Gold scrollwork embellished the ceiling. Enormous urns, intricately painted, dwarfed the rigid guards positioned along the immense corridor.
Jason and his liveried escort came to a heavy pair of bronze doors flanked by guards in ostentatious uniforms, complete with bandoleers, medals, epaulets, and ridiculously tall hats. The guards kept their gazes fixed down the hall, blinking infrequently, and never looked at Jason.
Another man waited outside the door. He wore a pointed hat and a long silk cape. A voice from behind the doors cried out, “Yosef, son of Pontiv.” The doors swung outward. The pointy-hat guy entered, and the doors closed.
The servant stood silently beside Jason. The guards stared solemnly at the empty hall. Jason tried to calm himself. Obviously, the grandeur of the hall was meant to intimidate visitors. He tried not to stress. The best thing he could do if he wanted his claim recognized was to stay calm and look like he belonged.
“The purported Lo
rd Jason of Caberton,” echoed a voice from inside the chamber. The bronze doors swung outward. A long blue carpet edged in silver led across the polished stone floor toward the dais, where the regent sat upon a great ivory chair. Crowds of elegantly arrayed courtiers clustered in groups off to either side. A portly old fellow with plump, healthy features, the regent looked much more like a real king than Galloran. A bejeweled circlet rested on his head. Rings glittered on his fingers. His fine raiment was a rich purple trimmed in gold.
Jason advanced along the carpet to where it stopped at a raised, circular piece of marble directly before the throne. Jason stood upon the pedestal. Bartley had informed him it was called the Petitioner’s Wheel. It gave an individual on the floor of the throne room the right to address the regent. Only those upon the dais shared the right to address Dolan directly. Currently two men stood upon the dais beside the regent, one dressed as a soldier, the other wearing long blue robes and an oversized tricornered hat, with a silver mantle wrapped about his narrow shoulders.
Standing upon the Petitioner’s Wheel, Jason looked up silently at the regent. Bartley had cautioned him to wait for Dolan to speak first.
“Greetings, young man,” Dolan said. “You claim the title of Caberton?”
“I do, sire.” According to Bartley, “sire” and “Your Highness” were the forms of address etiquette demanded for the occasion. “Your Majesty” was reserved for the king.
“Hold forth your right hand.”
Jason complied.
“Sound the tone.”
A hollow metal tube, like a giant chime, hung from a chain off to one side of the throne. The man dressed like a soldier struck the long tube with a hammer, producing a deep, penetrating tone. Jason could feel his teeth vibrating. The ring on his finger began to glow, as did one of the regent’s rings. Glancing around the room, Jason observed many other rings glowing, including a ring upon Bartley’s hand.
The tone dwindled, and the light faded from the rings.
“Who bequeathed this title to you?” the regent asked.
“My father, who received the title from Galloran.”
Courtiers leaned together, whispering soundlessly.
“While he lived,” the regent said, “Galloran bestowed many titles. Though he was never king himself, with his enfeebled father, the honored King Dromidus, trapped in a cataleptic stupor, it became his right to manage the affairs of the kingdom. Yet I do not recall him bequeathing the title of Caberton, once that line failed.”
“It happened twelve years ago. Galloran granted the title to my father in prison, who passed it to me.”
The regent nodded. “Twelve years ago Galloran adventured abroad. Since he never returned, he could well have granted a title in the field without many knowing it. You do in fact wear the signet ring of Caberton, which Galloran had in his possession. Who was your father?”
“I do not wish to mention him,” Jason said. “He was in prison, an enemy to the emperor, and I have chosen to distance myself from him.”
“Even though he passed the title to you?” the man in the tricornered hat spoke up.
“He passed me the title to a heap of stones for three sacks of flour,” Jason said, using a story Bartley had helped him prepare. “He was not man enough to make something of the opportunity. I will be. I intend to found a new line and to serve Trensicourt well.”
“Will any man vouch for young Jason?” the regent asked.
Bartley raised a hand. Two others, both of whom Jason recognized from playing Bones and Knuckles, also raised their hands.
“Very well,” the regent said. “Jason, do you solemnly swear fealty to the Crown of Trensicourt and to all agents of the Crown?”
“I do.”
“In times of war and peace, through hours of need and years of prosperity, will you defend Trensicourt in word, thought, and deed for as long as you live?”
“I will.”
“Your title is recognized, Lord Jason of Caberton. As of this moment you are free to stand in court when visiting Trensicourt. I fear your holdings are in considerable disrepair . . .”
At this point a titter ran through the assemblage.
“. . . but the few artifacts in my treasury pertaining to Caberton shall be restored to you. And land is land. Make it blossom. Have you any other inquiry?”
Something small pelted Jason in the back of his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a pretty young woman in an attractive dress trying to mouth something at him. It was Rachel, her short hair hidden under a fancy, flat-topped hat. Stunned to see her, he tried to read her lips. Now, she kept repeating silently, interspersed with a few other less decipherable words. Her imploring eyes glanced assertively at the dais.
“Has something else captured your attention?” the regent asked politely.
The crowd snickered.
Jason faced forward. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I have one other request. I would like to challenge Chancellor Copernum for the chancellorship.”
The room exploded with reactions, a clamor of gasps and exclamations. The regent looked thunderstruck. Betraying no surprise, the thin man in the tricornered hat measured Jason with calculating eyes.
“Come to order,” the soldier on the dais proclaimed. “We will have order, or I shall clear the chamber.”
Jason felt dizzy. He hoped he had understood Rachel correctly. How had she gotten here?
The regent spoke as the courtiers quieted.
“Such is your right, as a lord of the realm. When do you propose to hold this contest?”
“As soon as possible,” Jason said.
The regent turned to the brooding man in the tricornered hat. “What say you, Chancellor? Have you any objection to pursuing this challenge in summary fashion?”
Copernum narrowed his eyes. “I have no objection to annexing further holdings, however meager, to my own.”
The regent nodded. “Very well. After a twenty-minute recess Lord Jason of Caberton shall compete with Chancellor Copernum for the chancellorship. You may step down, Lord Jason.”
Jason stepped off the wheel. He watched Copernum, who had turned and was retreating through a door at one side of the dais. The slightly stooped man had a weak chin and a long, narrow nose, giving him an aerodynamic profile.
“Well,” Bartley growled, slapping Jason on the back as he came up from behind. “Turns out I cannot read you as well as our card games have led me to suppose. You are full of surprises! Whether you win or not, you have earned a place in history for sheer audacity!” He shook his head. “Challenging for the chancellorship seconds after the regent recognizes your title—an unprecedented move.”
“You have your questions ready?” asked another man. It was the fellow with the fancy coat from the Bones game. He had been one of the men who vouched for Jason along with Bartley.
“I think so,” Jason said. “Unless you have any brilliant questions to share.”
“No offense,” Bartley grumbled, “but we are going to keep our distance. No man in Trensicourt can afford to make an enemy of Copernum.”
“How long has it been since somebody challenged him?” Jason asked.
“Ten years,” Bartley said. “That was when he stripped rank and title from the Earl of Geer.”
“Give us a preview,” the other man urged. “What do you mean to throw at him?”
“You’ll see,” Jason said, still not certain himself. “Do you have any advice? What are typical questions?”
Bartley shrugged. “Events from history. Strategies. Riddles. It depends. Copernum has betrayed no weakness. He knows history as if he lived it. He is a master strategist. And he solves riddles like he composed them. We should leave you to your thoughts.”
Rachel approached as the other men walked away. “How are you?” she asked.
“Confused,” Jason said. “What are you doing here?”
“Long story,” she replied. “We have to watch what we say. There’s no safe place to talk.”
“Did you come up with any good questions?” he asked.
She moved closer and spoke more softly, her hand over her mouth. “Yes, actually. A great question. Which is why I went to see our dangling friend. He agreed that the question could help us. He had been doing some investigating through his own spies, and he discovered that Copernum already had his eye on the three of us, especially you. One of your gambling friends is one of the chancellor’s top spies. He knows we’re connected, and he might even know something about our quest.”
“Great,” Jason said. “What do we do?”
“You did it,” Rachel said. “You needed to challenge him without waiting. It will be harder for him to destroy us if you beat him. And if you lose, we just do what we would have done anyhow. Escape Trensicourt immediately.” She handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?” Jason asked.
“Open it when the contest starts,” she said. “It has some questions.”
“Why wait?” Jason wondered, examining the envelope.
“Just in case,” Rachel said. “According to our friend lots of people are watching you with spyglasses right now, reading your lips, observing your actions, trying to pick up clues.”
“Gotcha. How’d you get in here?”
“Our dangling friend called in some favors,” Rachel said. “We’ve been talking for too long. I have to go.”
“You’re not going to watch?”
“No. Trust me. It’s better for both of us.” She turned and vanished hurriedly into the crowd.
Nobody else drew near Jason, but he got plenty of elusive glances. He stood not far from the Petitioner’s Wheel, tapping the envelope against his palm, wondering what questions it might contain. How had he gotten into this mess?
Over the next several minutes people poured into the throne room, claiming all of the available floor space except immediately around Jason. The galleries were mobbed, becoming a sea of expectant faces. The dais also became crowded. Jason figured he would be just as eager to witness an event like this if someone else had been willing to take the risk.
